


we can roll ourselves over when we're uncomfortable

by girlsarewolves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Blackwater AU, Canon - TV, F/M, Kink Meme, No Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/pseuds/girlsarewolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was not how she had expected her first time sharing a bed with a man to go (wrapped up in an awkward embrace and discussing escape plans while the Blackwater burned an unnerving shade of green). 2x09 AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we can roll ourselves over when we're uncomfortable

**Author's Note:**

> For the sansan_got 2012 kink meme, prompt: "2x09 au; Sansa finds Sandor passed out on her bed and, afraid of what he might do of he wakes, afraid of leaving her room, and slightly intrigued and compassionate for what the hound might have endured during the battle, she decides to quielty go to sleep herself, next to him but careful not to wake him, knowing, besides, that he will protect if someone comes to harm her. KINK: accidental stimulation, please."

* * *

This was not how she had expected her first time sharing a bed with a man to go (wrapped up in an awkward embrace and discussing escape plans while the Blackwater burned an unnerving shade of green). She had expected it to be with her husband (not her betrothed's 'dog') and after a ceremony (not a talk with the queen leaving her even more frightened of the idea of a man between her legs). She of course had presumed they would both be naked (instead of bloodied armor pinching and poking into her back and her dress hot and stifling).  
  
Sansa had fled to her room for safety. Shae had urged her to run, bolt her door, let no one in until Stannis had sent for her. Sent men who would not rape her. She would wait the battle out and pretend she did not know what was going on outside her chamber walls and then become hostage to someone else, someone less likely to have his knights beat her. Sansa had meant to wait it out alone unless Shae came back.  
  
But he had been there. The Hound.  
  
Sansa had not even noticed him at first. There were so many thoughts in her head, so much going on; and he had been so quiet. Well, she supposed, most people are when they're passed out on a bed. She had gone to her window to stare at the green and orange glow of the sky, the rising smoke - and then she had heard him, shifting, armor making a slight racket for a brief moment. Sansa had almost screamed; one hand covering her mouth and one hand clutching her stomach as if she could physically hold the cry in.  
  
The awful, hateful Hound, who had saved her and thrown her gratitude back in her face; his back slumped against the head of her bed, his body too big for her bed. Too long, too broad. He had blood all over him, sweat dampened his face and made his hair cling to his neck. In the dim light of her room, with the angle of his face as he slept, she could see his burns clearly.  
  
A curious thought filled her; _'Does the fire worry him?'_  
  
The Hound was asleep, or passed out more likely. She noticed the wineskin in his hand, clutched tight even while he was unconscious. He somehow still looked frightening. He was huge and bloodied, and the angle he was sleeping in did not look at all comfortable, but though he shifted a little he did not wake. His hands were not gloved, and she thought of the day she had almost killed Joffrey. The Hound's handkerchief was still tucked away in one of her chests.  
  
 _'I did need it again. And more.'_  
  
But the Hound had given her more; the white cloak tucked away, wrapped around the handkerchief. Tokens he'd given and never asked for back; they were rough and dirty, and yet she was grateful she had never been made to part with them.  
  
When she had first realized someone was in the room, when she had seen it was The Hound, all she could hear were the queen's words. For a brief moment she was terrified that The Hound was there to rape her - was his blood up? Would he remember that she was still bleeding? Would he even care? He was called 'dog' so often perhaps he would act an animal tonight, perhaps he would rape her despite the mess. And then she saw his burns, saw his eyes closed but face still twisted.  
  
She saw him towering over her and promising her she was all right.  
  
Sansa felt wretched.  
  
Clegane was not a 'dog', no matter how often Joffrey called him that. Clegane had saved her, lied for her. He had been honest to her and never once had he hit her. He had covered her and never asked for his cloak back. He scared her - but he had not hurt her. He had not betrayed her, or told Cersei of her attempts to conceal her moonblood; he had told her to go to the queen, that such a thing could not be hidden for long. He had helped her.  
  
He had promised to stand between her and Joffrey.  
  
So, still frightened, Sansa crept to her bed. She did not know if he would be in his right mind should he wake, but she could not go outside, she couldn't. She settled down on the edge - slow and cautious and desperately trying to make as little noise and movement as possible. She felt his armor against her, felt the heat of him at her side. There was not much room for her, but though she was tall she was also still very slim, and when she laid on her side and scooted back - carefully - until she felt his arm at her back, there was space from the edge.  
  
 _'I will sleep, and in the morning everything will be fine. If Stannis does indeed win, I will plead for The Hound; he has saved me. I could save him.'_  
  
Sansa mulled over his words to her - _"When you are queen, and I am all that stands between you and you're beloved king."_ She remembered the harshness of his tone, but his words were more important. _'He is like a dog sometimes, like a mistreated dog; biting even at a kind hand reaching to pet it.'_ He might have snapped at her, but she could not shake the veiled promise of loyalty in his words. She wondered if he was tired of being a 'dog'. If she saved him from Stannis, if she called him a good man and her protector, would he stay and prove it?  
  
 _'What if Stannis will not let him?'_  
  
Sansa did not want to think about it.  
  
 _'What if Stannis does not win? What if Joffrey comes and finds his Hound here?'_  
  
That was not something she wanted to think about either.  
  
 _'Stannis will win. He is winning now. He will win and kill Joffrey, and I will not be beaten anymore. I might even be allowed to go home. I will speak for Clegane, for all he has done for me. Maybe he will come home with me.'_  
  
Her thoughts could very well be lies, but Sansa did not let herself acknowledge the uncertainty of everything. She was tired, she was scared. Her back was too warm while her front was too cold, and The Hound's armor dug into her flesh even more as he shifted, rolling so that his chest was pressed to her back.  
  
 _'He is massive,'_ she thought. She had known this since first seeing him, but feeling how much bigger he was than her, so close - so intimate - made her frightened and excited all at once. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to shut everything out, and dream of summer snows in Winterfell and Lady obediently trailing by her side.  
  
But Sandor Clegane's breath was hitting her ear and his arm was now draped over her; it was like a lover's embrace. The Hound was asleep on her bed and unwittingly holding her as a husband might hold his wife.  
  
Sansa's cheeks burned. Her tummy burned. Her skin felt hot and cold. Her back hurt because his armor was unyielding. She still ached from her moonblood, but now there was something different coiling in her belly; hot and fluttering. She wanted to wake him, but what if he was still drunk? What if he was angry?  
  
What if he saw how they were laying and took her?  
  
 _'He wouldn't.'_  
  
But he had stared at her strangely once or twice. Always when they were alone. They had not been alone often, and he had not looked at her that way each time. Still, she could not shake the way she had seen his eyes roam over her. He was drunk now. He had been in battle (he had left the battle, why? had he fled? had the fire been too much, had he thought of his awful brother the way she sometimes thought of Joffrey when she felt especially weak and frightened?).  
  
The Hound's armor poked and pinched. It was getting blood on her dress, she knew. She would not be able to hide that. Someone would know. What if someone came? What if Ser Ilyn came and broke down her door? Or Stannis' men? Or Joffrey and his knights?  
  
No, they would not come for her first. She was not that important.  
  
Sansa shifted a little. She could not sleep like this; as carefully as she could, she tried to find a more comfortable position. She felt Sandor's beard and burns against her neck. Her body rubbed against his unintentionally; his belt rubbed against the small of her back, and lower than that was mail and...  
  
Sansa froze. That was not a weapon underneath the mail. She tried to move away, but The Hound shifted again, groaning a little - _'please do not wake, please do not wake'_ \- and she wound up only rubbing against him more.  
  
He was harder now; she was certain of it.  
  
Mortified, Sansa started to scoot herself up (away). _'Please do not wake,'_ she silently repeated. _'Please do not wake.'_  
  
That was when the arm draped over her was suddenly holding her instead of the wineskin he had been gripping in sleep. When the breath hitting her neck was now warm against her ear. When the Hound rasped, "Stop moving."  
  
For one horrifying moment Sansa thought her initial fears were about to be validated. That she had been wrong about Clegane. She felt him hard against her, his arm tight around her. She knew his blood had to be up, he could very well still be drunk. She was in her bed with a man that could overpower her easily, and perhaps he would forget about the consequences, about her moonblood, about everything beyond satisfying himself.  
  
"Little bird, the more you move the harder this is for me," he growled harshly.  
  
Relief had never flooded her so quickly or overwhelmed her so powerfully. She sagged in The Hound's grip, limp and almost in tears.  
  
He did not let go of her, but he did not move much at all. He sighed and sniffed at her hair (much like a dog). "I thought you'd come. Wasn't expecting this, though." His arm loosened, and he started to roll away.  
  
Sansa grabbed his hand - bare skin and calloused fingers. She did not know why. She wanted his heat gone, his arm gone, his armor no longer jabbing her, his...him no longer hard against her. But the thought of him moving away from her scared her, too. She did not want his presence gone; she wished Lady was alive, was there instead, but Sandor Clegane was not so awful.  
  
The Hound stopped moving. He did not tighten his grip again, but he did not pull away further or let go.  
  
"I wanted to sleep, too," she whispered. Her voice sounded strange to her hears; thick and shaky. "But then you moved, and I was trying to move without waking you."  
  
"Didn't do a very good job, Little bird."  
  
"I didn't mean to...to..." Sansa trailed off, unable to finish her sentence. Her cheeks burned hotter than ever, hot with shame and guilt and embarrassment, hot with a strange anticipation, excitement.  
  
Clegane pulled her so she was once against pressed back against him. His arm moved down to her hips, and he moved her so that her butt rubbed back, feeling once more how hard he was. "Didn't mean for that to happen, Little bird?" His voice was harsh and deep; she could feel his chest rumbling when he growled the words out. "Didn't mean to make my cock hard?"  
  
Sansa gulped. "You are drunk."  
  
"Aye. And you're frightened."  
  
"Are you going to...what are you doing here?" She could not bring herself to say 'rape' because she remembered those men on top of her, and she remembered Sandor Clegane saving her.  
  
The Hound was quiet for a minute. He had to know what it was she was going to ask him, and Sansa was almost worried he would get angry with her. Angrier; he seemed to be in a foul mood already. "I'm leaving."  
  
"What?" Instantly Sansa bit down on her lip and closed her eyes; she sounded so frantic and childish. She hated it. But she did not want Clegane to leave. What did he mean, leave? Leaving her, her room? Leaving...  
  
"I'm leaving King's Landing, girl."  
  
The words were like one of Ser Meryn's blows.  
  
The Hound was leaving. The Hound was leaving her - leaving for good, leaving her alone to the mercy of Stannis or Joffrey, whichever king was sitting on the Iron Throne at the end of the battle.  
  
"Where will you go?" she asked, but what she meant was, _'Why? Why can't you stay?'_  
  
Clegane paused and then buried his face in her hair, against the crook of her neck. He held her tighter; she felt his burns against her skin. "Someplace that isn't burning."  
  
 _'It is the fire. And there is so much of it. And the wildfire, too...'_  
  
"North, might be," Clegane rasped, breaking up her thoughts. His arm around her hips moved, fingers brushing through her hair. He was drunk and talking of the North - of her home - and he was _aroused_ and this was entirely inappropriate.  
  
But Sansa leaned back against Clegane, a strange hope blossoming underneath all the heat.  
  
"Do you want to go home? I could take you to Winterfell, Little bird. I'd keep you safe." He gripped her chin - almost gently - and made her look at him. "No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them."  
  
Winterfell. Her brothers, Bran and Rickon, and her friend, Jeyne Poole. Home. Sansa closed her eyes, and she could picture it perfectly; she could go home and be a princess. Robb was a king now. She could help Rickon with his letters, and comfort Bran whenever he grew sad. She could be free, of Joffrey, of the Lannisters, of King's Landing and all the horror it held for her. A princess of Winterfell, and she would have him. Maybe he would stay and continue to protect her.  
  
"I want to go home," she whispered. Her hands clasped at Sandor's arm. She did not care about the blood on his armor and mail, she did not care if it was inappropriate. "But what about Stannis and his men? Or the goldcloaks?"  
  
Sandor took one of her hands and placed it on the hilt of his sword. "I've got this. Anyone tries to stop me, and I'll cut them down."  
  
Her mind was a whirlwind. This was not at all how she expected her first night in a bed with a man to be, but it was far better than what she had been dreading for the past few months, since the day Joffrey told her that she had to stay and marry him and birth his sons (just before he made her look at her father's and septa's heads). Though she was bleeding, and he was aroused (and he had draped his cloak over her in front of the court).  
  
And what if they did flee? Sandor was drunk and frightened of the fire. What if he could not protect her? What if he died, and she was reclaimed and raped and punished for trying to escape? And if they got away, what then? It was a long ride to Winterfell, and there was so much fighting, so many armies now. So much time alone with The Hound.  
  
What if he wanted a reward for helping her escape?  
  
Sansa looked up at Sandor, at his burns and the blood splatter on his face. She looked him in the eyes. _'He would not hurt me, not like Joffrey. He wouldn't. Better him than Joffrey, or Stannis' men. Better his price if he wanted something, better than staying here, staying trapped and caged.'_ She did not want to think of what would happen if Joffrey won and Sandor was gone.  
  
And there was still Ser Ilyn. He might could break her door down and carry out the queen's order, cut her head off before Stannis' men could stop him.  
  
 _"No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them,"_ he promised her.  
  
"Take me home?"

**Author's Note:**

> I feel bad leaving this off on an almost hopeful note when we, the audience, are aware that Winterfell has already been sacked, but you can pretend whatever you like happens after the end of the fic. Maybe even something a little more upbeat than actual canon. Feedback appreciated!


End file.
